Wednesday, September 5, 2007

I don’t know if the rest of this post could ever live up to that that titillating, google-search-enhancing title,

I was caught off guard in the bathroom at work a few minutes ago and it reminded me of another covert under-the-skirt fiasco. Today’s trainwreck involved a meeting that ran too long, a trip to the ladies room sans necessary supplies and no little coin operated machine to back me up. “Crime scene” or “Bloodbath” would work interchangeably. Thank God for black skirts and a Kohl’s nearby that I can hit at lunch time.

Still with me? Ok.

I was 14 and a freshman in high school. One of my teachers had encouraged me to join the Speech and Debate team. It was a chilly Saturday in November and I was heading for my first out of town Speech and Debate Meet at a big local university. I dressed in the timely preppy style of white turtleneck, red cardigan, white hose, tassel loafers, and a plaid kilt, adorned with a decorative gold “Kilt Pin”.

Scoff if you must. It was my preppy princess outfit and it made me feel smart. I didn’t dress like that for school, and I rarely even wore something like that to church. But this was my first competition and it was the UNIVERSITY and there would be potentially cute boys there.

So I dressed carefully that morning and spent extra time on my hair and makeup. The only thing I forgot to plan on was checking for pantyhose. My white ones had a huge runner so I grabbed a pair from my younger, smaller sister. Off to compete!

I was scheduled to perform three different times, competing each time for three different panels of judges and against three different groups of students in my event. My first round I was extremely nervous, but this was fun and I knew I was ready. I scampered up to do my 10 minute monologue as an indignant Southern belle being dumped by her fiancé. I was remembering my lines perfectly, doing my accent correctly, and making great eye contact. Suddenly, mid-monologue, I could feel my nylons start slipping down from my waist. I was supposed to move and gesture during this part but I toned it down in favor of keeping my nylons on. To no avail, and I felt them hitting my thighs. Even breathing was causing them to drift lower and lower down my legs. By the finale, I was clamping my knees together, afraid my pantyhose were about to make an appearance as part of the act. I finished to applause, and shuffled head-down back to my seat, the picture of humility, when inside all I cared about was sitting down and grabbing the crotch before it slid past my knees.

I waited until the room cleared and then waddled to the ladies room, where I stretched, yanked and pulled the ever-shrinking hose back into submission around my waist. I didn’t even make it out of the stall before they started their downward descent. In desperation, I yanked them back up, and used my kilt pin to pin them to my turtleneck. It held, and I was able to compete in my next two rounds, as the kilt pin slowly shredded my hose thread by thread. I didn’t care, as long as they didn’t fall off.

At the end of the day, we gathered in a huge auditorium for the scoring and awards. By this point all I cared about was getting home and ripping the shredded mess off of my body. They announced the winners for my event and I won. My team jumped up and down and cheered, as they called for me to come down and accept my award. I looked down the aisle of the auditorium, all 87 rows of it, and knew there was no way I would make it without a major wardrobe malfunction. As my teammates hugged me, I fumbled through my skirt to find the kilt pin and held on for life, holding my waist as if my appendix was about to rupture. I grabbed my trophy, waved, and ran back to my seat, never once letting go of the last three shreds of my dignity.

On the way home, my coach told me that I was so comfortable and natural at this and that I should stick to it. I wanted to flip my skirt up and show him the nightmare under my skirt, but an award winning Southern belle doesn’t do that kind of thing.